


Octopus

by Haldane



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Non Consensual, Not as evil as it sounds given the other tags, Psychotropic Drugs, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haldane/pseuds/Haldane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From 2007:-</p><p>A challenge: <br/>Write a convincing horror scenario within the confines of the slashy  detective story, with or without a squid.  Holmes' conviction in the  non-existence of the supernatural must be shaken.  Bonus points if  Watson gets in mortal danger.  Any POV, any grammatical person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watson

Part 1 - Watson.

I have published before my account of the horrible affair in Cornwall under the title of The Devil's Foot Root, in which I gave an account of my hallucinations under the effects of the drug. What I omitted were the very specific nature of the images that assailed me, and I find that they continue to haunt my mind. So now, with Holmes away and the house to myself, I shall attempt to put them to paper. I find that this is most efficacious in clearing such thoughts, and afterwards I shall burn the account to ensure that no record of it survives. Some things should never be revealed, not to anyone.

I shall make the assumption that my imaginary reader knows the details of the case as published, and start my account at the moment that Holmes lit the fateful lamp. For a few minutes nothing happened; it seems obvious enough that the fumes must build up to a certain level in order to have an effect. I noticed first a heavy, oppressive blackness, that seemed to imply something dangerous and horrible approaching rather than carry any threat of its own, like a black raincloud sighted across a valley. 

This soon increased to such feelings of terror and peril that I fought to escape it. I caught a glimpse of Holmes locked in rigid horror across from me, and I lurched forward to seize him in the hope of pulling us both clear. 

As I reached for him, his hands lifted towards me and I felt hope that he was also aware of our danger. But then I saw the most awful transformation; each of his fingers stretched out and lengthened, becoming tentacles that wound around my hands and arms as I - and I am ashamed to admit it, but I can only help myself by putting down the absolute truth - recoiled from my friend and tried to prevent him reaching me.

It was futile. His tentacles, as I must call them, had grown to several feet in length, tapering in thickness from delicate tips to as large around as the top of my thigh. The rest of Holmes was also distorted. His head remained, but revoltingly swollen and featureless, without the solid firmness of decent flesh. His body I could not see at all, if it was still there. He had become to my sight simply a bloated sac with reaching tentacles, but still somehow _him_.

I would have thought it could not get any worse. But my mind was still in the grip of the drug, and despite the lack of logic I could only accept that my clothes had gone in the course of Holmes's transformation. My arms were bare where the tentacles twined around them, and more began to entangle my legs while one slid around my back and blocked my attempts to retreat. The monster that was Holmes pulled me forwards even as I had tried to pull him towards me before. 

I had one final moment of insight that this was the drug's doing, and we could still get out. But there was nowhere for my hands to find purchase on him, no shoulders or wrists for a solid grip in order to pull us towards the door. And then the drug clouded my mind and I was no longer aware that the situation was not real.

I am not sure how many tentacles there were in Holmes's final form. Certainly at least half a dozen, for one held each of my arms and legs, while another supported my back and there were more that I could see moving. Then the horror of my situation intensified, as one more began the most gentle exploration between my legs. 

The muscular tip had all the dexterity one would have expected from Holmes's fingers. In addition, with no bones or joints, it was able to perform manoeuvres impossible for a human hand, coiling and probing. I attempted to resist, but the tentacles' grip pulled my legs wide apart and left me completely exposed. 

As I recall, I was more horizontal than vertical now, held off of the ground by the irresistible pull of the tentacles. The one that had been under my back now curled completely two or three times around my torso, and crept down to join the other in stroking my genitals. One even cradled my head, its tip pressing against my lips when I would have screamed.

I would have writhed in its grip, had I been able to. Its coils around me were like those of a serpent or the roots of an old tree, unimaginably strong and unyielding. And yet their grip did not hurt in the least, the Holmes-monster seeming content to hold me immobile and not crush me as it obviously could have done. I exhausted my strength and lay quiescent, panting and sweating but no nearer escape than before.

I am loath to write it, but there is yet more to say. I do not know which thought causes me to shudder more now, in the clear light of day and the solid sanity of Baker Street, but the truth is I began to respond to the creature's stroking caresses even as one last tentacle touched me on the anus. 

And it was not content to simply touch me there. It pressed its way inwards, smooth and slippery. I expected it to hurt, but the tapering shape allowed it to press and retreat, gradually working its way deeper while slowly stretching me open. The other tentacles kept up their stimulation of my member and sac, while the tips of the ones holding my limbs stroked and slid along my skin, more touches than I could process at one time.

I will not fail to admit my own arousal, much as I would like to. But the tips' touch, like fingers brushing my skin, combined with the rhythmic heavy thrusting of the one inside my body, and above all the awareness that this was still Holmes, my long-time friend and companion, caused my body to react despite what any sane mind would have found revolting. 

I was still panting and gasping, but no longer making any attempt to get away. Holmes held me, twined securely in his grip, while he stimulated me to the most intense pleasure, inside and out. Unable to resist his touch any longer, I shuddered as I climaxed, arching my body and throwing my head back.

Only to feel it smack against the ground, on the grassy lawn outside the door. I was lying outside the cottage, fully clothed, with Holmes sprawled atop me. He was moaning and jerking horribly, still caught in the drug's fumes. I rolled him to his back and attempted to rouse him, slapping him and calling his name. It seemed to take an age before he opened his eyes and knew me. Even then I could tell he was deeply affected, as he called me by my Christian name and clung to my shoulders for support. Evidently his own visions had been as real to him as mine had been to me.

And all the time I was aware of the wetness inside my trousers, and could only hope that Holmes would fail to notice in his disoriented condition. 

There is little more to say; most of it in is the published account. It went down in local folklore as one of those stories they like to tell on stormy evenings, of horrible deaths and insanity. I am only thankful that the drug seems to have had no lasting effect on the two of us. And now I will read through this account one more time, and then burn it lest it ever be seen by another.

Hopefully that will be enough to exorcise the images from my mind.


	2. Holmes

Part 2 - Holmes.

 

Of course I have read Watson's account of his hallucinations under the influence of the Devil's Foot Root. Either he has concealed the truth, or the effects he felt were very different to mine. He reports vague impressions of darkness and danger; my images were sharp in image and sound, with a precision that shakes my confidence that I always know what is real and what is not.

The oddest thing was that at first I had no idea I had fallen under the drug's effects, let alone so rapidly. I was sitting there in my chair, perfectly aware of my surroundings, when a voice spoke. I knew it was not Watson, for this voice was deeper than his, and indeed it seemed he could not hear it at all, since Watson made no reaction to what at first I thought was the intrusion of a third party.

"How much does Watson care for you?" it asked, and I startled to hear those words, spoken into my very ear when I knew there had been no one behind me. I tried to turn my head and see the source of the words, but was unable to move. "Shall we test him?" 

"Who are you?" I asked reflexively. I could not work out how another person had entered the room without us noticing.

"Little man." He seemed amused. "Do you think you can play with drugs that open your mind, and expect that there will be no consequences? Normally I cannot reach you, but now you have reached out to me. This is my realm."

I could still see nothing of another person, but a curl of smoke reminded me of our - my - experiment, and I decided I was having an aural hallucination. Obviously by his agreeing to participate, Watson was much on my mind, and it seemed natural enough that my subconscious would call him to my attention. Then I heard the voice speak again. "I asked you about Watson. Would he risk his life for you?"

I felt uneasy at those words, and more so when Watson began to rise from his chair. My sense of time was distorted; he got halfway up and then froze in that position, his gaze on my face and his expression one of concern. I spoke as calmly as I could manage. "It seems so, since he is here at all. I told him there was a risk, but he refused to leave me to do it alone."

"Well, a solider may risk his life for any of a thousand men he does not even know, so perhaps that tells us nothing," the voice mused. "Maybe he should risk more?"

"What can a man risk more than life itself?" I countered, getting caught up in the argument and beginning to lose the awareness that it was all just my imagination.

"Many things, or one thing by many names. Honour, reputation, self-image, pride... Would Watson abase himself for you, allow you to take away his sense of self?" 

"I have treated him badly before, and he has accepted it," I replied a trifle stiffly. I prefer not to recall those occasions. 

"What of risking his reputation before the world? Strong words during an argument do not risk that. Would he do something for you, that if asked for by another, he would reply that it was impossible?"

"I do not see how such a test could be performed."

Watson began to move again, finally attaining his feet and reaching for me. I understood his intention; he saw something in me that had convinced him I was in danger, and he was going to pull me from the cottage into the open air. With a strange voice in my head I had to agree with him that the drug was actively affecting me, and I reached out to take his hands.

"That's right, take him. You have wanted him for a long time, have you not?" The voice was lurid in my ears, its implications plain. I hesitated, suddenly wondering if Watson would misunderstand my eagerness for his touch. I have hidden my desire for him under a mantle of complete propriety, as any gentleman would in the same situation, be the object of his affections male or female. 

"Watson sees me as his friend," I replied firmly. "And it would make no difference to him if he knew. He knows my actions will always respect his preferences."

"Are you willing to test that? Will you show him your desires, and see if he turns away?" The voice taunted me, but I did my best to ignore it, continuing to try and reach Watson in the middle of the room. I saw the hope in his open face, his belief that he could rescue both of us.

"Wait!" And we were frozen in position once more, and I fought against the restraint placed upon me. "He might accept your desires out of simple lust. You are an attractive man; I shall take that advantage from you. If he responds, it must be in spite of your looks, not because of them."

Then the most horrible thing occurred. My hands, stretched out in front of me, began to thicken and lengthen, each finger becoming a writhing tentacle as of some monstrous sea creature. I was again free to move, but as I took his hands, I saw my Watson flinch away from me.

"See?" the voice crowed, triumphant. "He cannot tolerate you in a less attractive form. He will let you down yet."

"Not at all. It is merely shock; he could hardly be expecting me to mutate wildly before his eyes." I had no idea when this had become a contest between myself and the voice I heard, with Watson somehow both the game piece and the prize. I kept my grasp on his arms, and pulled myself from my chair.

Or, I tried to. For now the change had spread further, and my entire body had altered to match my hands. I seemed to have the form of a giant cephalopod of some sort, a rounded mass of body with nothing but tentacles for limbs. I still held to Watson, ignoring his attempts to get away, hoping that he would be able to see that it was still me he was trying to help.

And then Watson's clothes were gone, and with them went most of my composure. I could not help but move closer to him, my new appendages responding as easily and unconsciously as my normal limbs had done before. But these were boneless, and long; I found myself twining them around Watson's arms and legs, behind his back and under his head, supporting him in my embrace.

"Let us remove your vaunted propriety. What if you were to press your attentions on him, in the face of his objections?"

I have no idea how the voice had gained such control over me, but I was helpless to resist its suggestions. I acted solely in accordance with my own desires, touching and stroking Watson everywhere. I could see his fear and disgust, yet I continued, insinuating myself into the most private parts of his body. He fought me, trying to tear free, and yet I could tell he was reluctant to use his full strength against me, for all his attempts were to pull himself lose, not to strike or harm, no matter how repellent my form.

Then he tired, and lay quiet in my hold. "Watson will not hurt me," I pointed out to the voice, for the first time initiating an exchange. "Not even in this shape you have forced upon me."

"You have hardly touched him yet. You cannot expect him to tolerate an attempt by you to have intercourse with him."

The challenge both shocked and aroused me. I would like to claim that with the animal shape had come an animal nature, but I knew I had wanted Watson for a long time while in my human form. I touched his genitals, revelling in their warmth and texture, and with a certain shameful delight realised that I had more tentacles that I could bring into play, and used another to stroke down the cleft of his buttocks and seek intently for his opening.

And Watson responded to my touch. Even while I was trapped in the form of a nightmare his body answered to my handling, and I could see his member stiffen as I ministered to him. I tried to be slow and gentle, caressing with as much control as I could exert, and most slowly entering him. This body had some ability to produce slime from glands on the tips of the tentacles, and I used this to ease my entry, rocking forwards and back, each stroke taking me deeper.

His body was hot and tight around me, and my tentacles had all the sensitivity that my human member had, so I felt it as the most arousing experience possible. I realised that I could do things in this shape that would be impossible for a man, and suspended Watson entirely in my hold, wrapping him in my multiple arms with complete security as I thrust myself inside of him.

I do not know if the cephalopod body could experience climax, but I could hardly fail to be aware of Watson's completion, as he shouted aloud and spent himself over both of us. Even without a climax myself, I felt only pleasure in his obvious enjoyment of my efforts. The voice in my head was silent.

Then, in an abrupt transition, I was outside. Watson was slapping my face, not in anger but in concern, and I could hear him calling my name as if from a long distance away. I tried to reach for him with one of my tentacles, only to discover that I was in my human shape once more. I also had regained my normal character, and I tried to beg his forgiveness, while avoiding naming aloud what I had done. I settled for castigating myself for placing him in danger with my deliberate exposure of us to the drug, which was even more horribly potent that I had expected.

It seems that Watson saw me caught deeply in the drug's effects, and leapt from his chair to pull us both free. That is his account, and I have seen nothing in his behaviour to contradict it. The bizarre and obscene vision of my transformation and our congress together had existed only inside my mind. That is the obvious and logical conclusion.

But I have not taken either cocaine or morphine since our return. Every time the desire forms, something stays my hand. I tell myself it is Watson's often-voiced concern for my health, and nothing more.


End file.
